The Diary of Emma Boffin
by melikeytolkien
Summary: Frodo comes back to the Shire and inspires a young hobbit to love writing and herself...and maybe him.
1. A Life Worth Writing About

Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien owns The Lord of the Rings. Peter Jackson owns the movies. But I successfully haggled with Elijah for the rights to Frodo. Yes indeed, sexual favors were involved.  
  
Intro: The ring is destroyed. Frodo goes off in a boat. Then he comes back because he's so pissed that fan fiction writers collectively think he is not as pretty as Legolas. He decides to stay in the Shire, living in Bag End with Sam and Rosie and lots of hobbit babies until he can find someone to fall in love with who doesn't have a penis. If you, my reader, think Frodo needs another boy in his life to be happy, then this is quite possibly not the story for you, as it pairs Frodo off with a girl. That's all I have to say..except that reading is good but reviewing is better.tra la la.  
  
*** The Diary of Emma Boffin ***  
  
Day One:  
  
I have just now returned from Mr. Baggins' birthday party, and this beautiful empty book was his gift to me. I had asked him a few weeks ago over tea about what sorts of things he had done during his time in the Undying Lands, and he replied that he had spent a great deal of time writing a book about his adventures and the War and all that. I told him that I hoped someday that my life would be worth writing about, but that I didn't expect it ever would be. I'm so dull and homely and far too cowardly to attempt great things. I didn't tell him that last sentence though because it wouldn't do to complain about my life when I had everything in the world I could possibly want, and Mr. Baggins had risked his own life many times over to make mine and those of so many others worth living.  
  
I didn't expect Mr. Baggins to remember that conversation though, and in fact, I didn't remember it myself until I opened the book he handed me and saw the inscription he had written in his small, neat handwriting: For Miss Emma Boffin, whose life is already worth writing about. From your friend, Frodo Baggins.  
  
Well, I don't know why he should think my life worth writing about, but I shall write something because I certainly don't feel like sleeping at the moment although it is very late. Through the small half-round window of my bedroom, I can just see stars winking and blinking through the tree branches.  
  
Oh, the party was so marvelous. I danced three entire dances with Nat Gillenwater and one, yes one, with Judd Bracegirdle (who even told me I looked nice!). It will be rather interesting, I think, in three weeks time when I finally turn thirty-three.Well, I don't know. Nat might start courting me, and I'll be wishing he was Judd. I had three slices of cake tonight, which was not terribly bad, considering how much I usually eat.  
  
Day Two:  
  
Well, it is morning now. I woke up quite late, as did Lucy, and we were so excited to discuss the party that we didn't even change out of our night-dresses to eat breakfast. Now, we have successfully exhausted all details concerning how awful Hyacinth Chubb looked in that pink dress, and how Judd must have danced with her only to be polite (I hope), and how Gus Drury followed Lucy around everywhere she went, and how she allowed him to accompany us home only to humor him.  
  
So now, we are quite cozy before the fire, each of us in our chairs, with our legs tucked up under us. Lucy is reading a book that Mr. Baggins gave her. He seems to be very literate. Once again, I don't know what I should write. Well, I shall write about myself, since that was Mr. Baggins' intended use for his gift.  
  
I am Emma Boffin, daughter of Walter Boffin and Celia Brandybuck. Lucy is my elder sister by five years, but she is unmarried still. Our parents died of a fever when I was just eighteen years and Lucy twenty- three, so the Brandybucks took us in and we lived at Brandy Hall until Lucy came of age and we moved back to Hobbiton. I am now nearly thirty-three years old myself, and Lucy and I earn our livings by running a small flower shop in front of our hole, which is right in the middle of Hobbiton. I have brown hair and blue eyes, and I am a bit shorter and plumper than I should like to be. I like books and animals and singing very much. Also bracelets. And sponge cake.I am immoderately fond of sponge cake, in fact. What else? There really isn't anything else. Oh yes, my best friends are Ruthie Hornblower, and although I suspect he likes me as more than a friend, Nathaniel Gillenwater. Pendleton Proudfoot is alright as well, I suppose.  
  
That really is all that there is to say. My life is indeed vastly less interesting than that of Mr. Baggins, so I feel rather silly going through all that. Ah well, I must get dressed and get to work with Lucy.  
  
Day Three:  
  
Late September is a splendid month in the Shire. I have spent most of this afternoon down by the lake, selling flowers to passersby on their way into town. Mr. Baggins strolled by a few minutes ago and bought several flowers. I was sitting right near the reeds fringing the lake's shores, with my legs stretched out in front of me on the grass, and my book open in my lap, reading over what I have written the last two days, so didn't see him until he was a few yards away, examining my basket of nasturtians.  
  
"Afternoon, Emma," he said when I looked up at last.  
  
"Look, Mr. Baggins," I said, holding up my book.  
  
"Yes, I see you found something to write about after all," he said with a smile.  
  
"Not really," I answered. "I don't think anyone else would find my writing interesting."  
  
"Why's that?" he asked, selecting a few flowers.  
  
I smirked. "Actually, I'm sure my book is far more interesting than anything you've ever written, Mr. Ringbearer. Who wants to read about wizards and elves and saving Middle Earth from doom when one can revel in the thrills of sponge cake and boys and selling flowers?"  
  
He laughed. "Who indeed?" as he pressed a few coins into my open palm and sauntered off with a bouquet of nasturtians. 


	2. The Flower From No One

Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien owns The Lord of the Rings. Peter Jackson owns the movies. But I successfully haggled with Elijah Wood over the rights to Frodo. Yes indeed, sexual favors were involved.  
  
Day Four:  
  
I'm writing tonight by the light of the full moon. Lucy wants me to go inside but I won't yet. The sky is cloudless and diamond-studded, and I need a few more moments with it.  
  
I'm sitting on one of two benches in our front garden, and before me I can see our beds of flowers, each leaf and petal edged in silver. To the left is our little greenhouse, where we keep flowers blooming all through the winter. Below our garden, and winding off to the right, is the road, and I can see our neighbors' holes, nestled under blankets of earth. Their windows are lit by warm hearth fires within, for it is not yet very late. Further along, I can see where our road intersects with Bagshot Row, which is an even more winding road. I believe Lucy and I are invited to the Gamgees' for tea tomorrow but I will have to ask her about that when I go in, as I may be mistaken.  
  
Soft and light, silver and white, moonbeams kiss the earth tonight.  
  
Oh, that's awful. I should like to be able to write real poetry. Mr. Baggins' uncle Bilbo was known for his great lyrical abilities, I believe. Well, he was also known for being mad, so perhaps I cannot expect too much of my writing since I am quite sane.  
  
Yet I feel so muddled lately. I feel as though something is not quite right in my life, but I cannot think what it might be. And I spend so much of my time just thinking about questions that I cannot possibly answer. Such as..Are primroses prettier than nasturtians? Does Judd like Holly Dalrymple better than me? Are the stars above me really spirits? Is writing a waste of my time? Why am I here?  
  
Day Five:  
  
Well, I don't know what to think! I stepped outside this morning to plant the iris bulbs for next spring and what did I see on the very bench I was sitting on until late last night? A single creamy white nasturtian lay there with a little paper card tied onto its stem with red ribbon. "To Emma," it read in golden ink. "I think this one missed you."  
  
There was no signature so I ran inside again and asked Lucy if she knew who had left it. She looked as surprised and confused as I was. She asked me whom I had sold my nasturtians to the other day, and I scowled, knowing I couldn't possibly remember them all.  
  
"I know I didn't sell any to Nat, and he's the only person I can imagine giving me a flower."  
  
"Well, Nat's handwriting isn't this neat anyway," Lucy mused, examining the card. "And he wouldn't have written this."  
  
I nodded. "'Have a flower.' That would be Nat's inscription."  
  
Lucy smiled then. "Maybe it's from Judd!"  
  
I feigned swooning and we both laughed. "I haven't sold Judd a flower in months."  
  
We told the whole story over tea to everyone at Bag End, and Elanor was so cute running on about a secret admirer and such. Mr. and Mrs. Gamgee and Mr. Baggins listened with interest to all theories concerning the mysterious sender and proposed a few of their own, none of which were plausible in the least. But the conversation was very amusing and everyone laughed a great deal and ate even more, so it was a very pleasant tea.  
  
And now I am exhausted with thinking about who could have sent this flower to me. I have put it in a crystal vase right here on the table next to my bed. Now it is time to sleep.  
  
Day Six:  
  
The market was very crowded today. I suppose people are just eager to buy now when the harvest is in full swing. Ruthie Hornblower and I met there and wandered around for a while. I bought all the things Lucy needed for dinner tonight, to which I invited Ruthie, and I bought a bracelet too for myself.  
  
Of course I told Ruthie all about the flower, but she didn't have any more idea than I who sent it. We did get onto the subject of boys though, about which Ruthie usually has little to say. She asked me who, in my opinion, were the three most handsome hobbits I knew.  
  
"Mr. Judd Bracegirdle is first," I said without hesitation. Ruthie nodded, as though that was a given, which it was. "Then, I suppose, maybe Elliot Drury, you know, Gus' younger brother..And I don't know, Pendleton Proudfoot," I finished.  
  
Ruthie laughed. "Pendleton? But his ears!"  
  
I dismissed her mockery. "He's cute. There. I have spoken. Now, Miss Ruthie, which three gentlehobbits do you most fancy?"  
  
Ruthie sighed. "Elliot Drury is my first," she said. "Then Nat, who worships the ground you walk on, of course. And..I can't tell you the third one."  
  
"No? Why not?"  
  
"Because you'll definitely laugh at me," she answered, growing pink.  
  
"Of course I won't, Ruthie," I said putting an arm around her shoulder. "We're best friends, and we both agreed long ago that boys were silly and we would never marry but just be happy old maids together. You don't think I'm really interested in Pen Proudfoot, do you? Come now, out with it."  
  
She giggled. "Alright then, but promise not to laugh?" I promised. Ruthie took a deep breath. "It's Mr. Baggins," she whispered. I nearly choked trying to restrain myself!  
  
Reviews welcome 


	3. Emma's Musings on Men and Letters

Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien owns The Lord of the Rings. Peter Jackson owns the movies. But I successfully haggled with Elijah over the rights to Frodo. Yes indeed, sexual favors were involved.  
  
Day Seven:  
  
Ruthie's still here because a storm came up last night that was quite ferocious. It's still raining so there's nothing to do. Well, Lucy would tell me there's plenty of housework to do, but really, on such a day as this, who cares if one's hole is tidy or not. The three of us have spent most of the day noshing on cold chicken, potatoes, and nut cake..And omelets. I made the omelets. That is my one great culinary skill. I'd venture to say that if Hobbiton held an omelet-making (and perhaps -eating) contest, I would easily prevail over all other contenders.  
  
Ugh. Alas, my omelet-making skills are no longer in demand since neither Lucy nor Ruthie nor myself can possibly eat anymore..and it's raining. Raining raining raining..  
  
Oh yes! I had forgotten all about Ruthie and her admiration for Mr. Baggins! How funny it was when she told me of said admiration so covertly yesterday! "Haven't you ever noticed his eyes?" she gushed.  
  
"I've noticed they're too big for his head," I laughed.  
  
"But they're so blue!"  
  
"Freakishly so," I agreed. And he has a gap between his front teeth- "  
  
"Which is cute!" Ruthie protested.  
  
"And he's altogether too.." I paused, searching for the right word. "..Pretty or angelic or something." At this point we had arrived back at Periwinkle Slope (so named by my great-grandfather for the abundance of periwinkles that bloom on the hill we live under) and Lucy heard us talking from the kitchen where I was putting away my purchases.  
  
"Who's angelic?" she inquired. When we told her, she nodded soberly. "Anyone who could do what he did would have to be tremendously pure of heart," she said. I suppose that is true. Pureness of heart is a far more admirable quality than huge eyes.  
  
Day Eight:  
  
Lucy went for a walk tonight with Gus Drury! At sunset! I can just imagine them standing hand in hand on the edge of the lake, looking dreamily into each other's eyes. The lake was surely catching the last flecks of sunlight coming in over the pines...Ha! I can't help but laugh at the image of Lucy and Gus in such a romantic setting. Gus' roly-poly form silhouetted against the flaming horizon, his clammy hand holding Lucy's...Ewww. I don't think Lucy can possibly be as interested in him as he is in her, but the very possibility of it disturbs me. Supposing Lucy marries him? Would I have to live on my own? Would I have to learn how to tolerate Gus?  
  
Nat and I were talking today. I didn't tell him about the flower but somehow he knew about it anyway, which means either he was the one who sent it or people are talking about it. Honestly, I think I would prefer the latter explanation. Anyway, he asked me if I knew who the sender was, and I said I still had no idea. He sounded quite irate and quickly changed the subject to a rather unfair assessment of the various faults of one Judd Bracegirdle's character. According to Nat, Judd punched little Brandy Winkle yesterday over some dare to vandalize Bag End or some such nonsense. Nat didn't have many details to relate and so I suspect him of having made up the story so he could have something nasty to say about Judd. I think he knows I like Judd better than him. Well, that's not exactly true since I know him better than I know Judd. Ah well, enough speculation about boys for today.  
  
Day Nine:  
  
Writing is the last thing I should be doing right now as I've a terrible headache due to straining my eyes from reading all day long. Lucy ran the shop while I attended to our correspondence which has really been piling up the last few weeks as both Lucy and I are quite lazy when it comes to answering letters. But Lucy said this morning that as I have taken to spending a good deal of my idle time in scribbling, that I might as well scribble to some purpose by responding to some of our orders from all over the Shire. We've piles of requests for tulip bulbs of all varieties, amaryllis, roses (which have a waiting list for spring), peonies, bleeding-hearts, dahlias, and the list goes on indefinitely. Every day there are more. As autumn nears, I suppose people want to keep their homes full of the fragrances and colors of summer for as long as possible.  
  
After I had written and sent replies to all of our customers, friends, and relations, I flipped through Lucy's book that Mr. Baggins gave to her at his birthday party last week. It is a book of poetry authored by him and his uncle Bilbo. The poems are really quite good, and some I recognize as lyrics set to music in tunes sung throughout Hobbiton and perhaps the entirety of the Shire. But other poems are so beautiful that they might be considered songs even when they are only spoken. I have found many that refuse to be read silently, rather demanding to be spoken aloud, with words and phrases that must be rolled over the tongue and tasted to be savored fully.  
  
I cannot think what the world would be without words like these which are as nourishing to my soul as food is to my body. I should die if I could never say "melody," "wisp," "hollyhock," "bubble," "sheen," "pout," and so many others. Without words, I would be so very alone.  
  
Now I must leave words alone though, lest my head explodes, or worse, Lucy makes me drink that evil dandelion tea of hers which she claims does me so much good.  
  
Thank you for the support from those who have reviewed so far! 


	4. Prince Charming is Dethroned

Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien owns The Lord of the Rings. Peter Jackson owns the movies. But I successfully haggled with Elijah over the rights to Frodo. Yes indeed, sexual favors were involved.  
  
Day Ten:  
  
Judd Bracegirdle is an absolute scoundrel! It's all over town about how he got horribly drunk in The Green Dragon over in Bywater and behaved like a complete boor, taking appalling liberties with the barmaids. When I first heard that bit of the story, I almost wished I was one of said barmaids, but now I have quite changed my mind, considering what he did after leaving the bar! On his way home, he broke several windows at Bag End and, seeing that the Gamgees weren't at home, crept inside. In fact, I believe the Gamgees had gone to Buckland to dine with Mr. Merry Brandybuck. Anyway, to continue, Judd snuck (or rather, stumbled) inside Bag End and started ransacking. Apparently he made a horrible mess and broke a good many valuables before he was apprehended by Mr. Baggins, who was in the house the whole time. He had not been able to go to Buckland due to a severe head cold, and had been fast asleep until he heard glass shattering. Anyway, Mr. Baggins, head cold and all, grabbed Judd from behind and tackled him just as Judd was about to go for Mr. Baggins' famed mail shirt. Imagine! Attempting to steal a shirt of mithril from a hero like Mr. Baggins, who has more greatness in his pinky finger than the likes of Judd Bracegirdle has in his entire being! To think that I ever admired such an idiot as Judd!  
  
Mr. Baggins showed remarkable restraint considering Judd's behavior. He didn't even call the authorities directly! He talked for ten minutes or so to the so-drunk-he-was-barely-conscious Judd about why Judd was doing such a thing and whom he was trying to impress (It turned out that Nat's story of the other day was quite accurate...Judd had dared Brandy Winkle to smash a window of Bag End and Brandy wouldn't do it and said Judd probably wouldn't have the nerve to do it either. So Judd punched Brandy and went on to take the dare). Without so much as boxing Judd's ears, Mr. Baggins let him go freely once he had Judd's word of honor that he would pay for the damage he had caused. Mr. Baggins took that creature's word of honor! It seems to me that Mr. Baggins is either incredibly naïve and stupid, or else has an unfathomable depth of confidence in the innate goodness of hobbits.  
  
Day Eleven:  
  
I was outside planting tulips and singing just now when Mr. Baggins and Mr. Gamgee happened along Winkle Way (the name of our road). I was actually singing a tune that I had made up myself to go with the words of my favorite piece in Mr. Baggins' book of poems. I was kneeling with my back to the road and I think the two gentlehobbits must have stood there listening, just a few yards away from me, for quite a while, without my knowledge of their presence. When I reached the end of the song/poem, they both started clapping and I could actually feel the blood rushing to my face as I turned to face them.  
  
"That was a mighty beautiful song there, Miss Emma," said Mr. Gamgee. Mr. Baggins just looked at me, smiling as though he couldn't stop smiling long enough to speak.  
  
"Thank you," I said sheepishly.  
  
"Say, did you ever find out who it was that left you that flower last week?" Mr. Gamgee asked.  
  
"No, I had forgotten all about it," I answered honestly. "It's still blooming though."  
  
"Is it now?" Mr. Gamgee seemed to be very amused about something. "What do you say to that, Mr. Frodo? All those pretty flowers you purchased from Miss Emma last week are still blooming as well, aren't they? And very lovely they are too, Miss Emma."  
  
Mr. Baggins nodded in agreement, but kept glancing around as though very much distracted from the conversation. He seemed anxious to be on his way. "Well, we're lucky to have good soil on Periwinkle Slope," I said in response to Mr. Gamgee's praise.  
  
"Indeed. Well, must be off. Good day Miss Emma," said Mr. Gamgee. They walked away and I went inside to have a cool drink and write a bit. I think Mr. Gamgee knows who sent the nasturtian, but I'm still too shocked about Judd to care.  
  
Day Twelve:  
  
I fell of a ladder today while pruning the red tips, which are just huge now. I leaned too far forward reaching my shears for the topmost branches, and the ladder started to tilt. So then I leaned backward, but that was too far as well and I landed on the ground very hard. I tried to stand up and moaned very loudly at the pain in my ankle, cursing my clumsiness. Mr. Baggins must have been nearby when I fell though, because a moment later he had picked me up and carried me inside. He and I seem to be always meeting these days. Anyway, Lucy was out visiting Hyacinth Chubb at the time, so Mr. Baggins stayed for a while and wrapped my ankle and got me comfortable on the sofa with my leg propped up. Then he made us some tea. He was altogether very kind and attentive, and we had an interesting little talk that ended quite strangely.  
  
I told him how very much I was enjoying writing these days, and I showed him a few of my poems, not expecting much in the way of praise from such an accomplished poet as himself. Yet he was very pleased with my humble verses and let me know it. He alternated between lavishing praise upon me and expressing concern over my injury, saying such things as, "Emma, you're talented beyond words and do you need more tea and is your leg as comfortable as it can be and your writing shows a wisdom and sensitivity well beyond your years." He asked me to call him Frodo from now on and dispense with the "Mr. Baggins," but I don't know how comfortable I would feel referring to him so informally. He's almost too amiable, but I like him very much.  
  
"Emma," Mr. Baggins, or rather, Frodo, said seriously at one point. "Something tremendous has happened." The light from the open window shone on his face and his blue eyes were glassy with emotion. Something was either very wrong or very wonderful.  
  
"What is it?" I asked, almost afraid of the answer. He took a deep breath, looked off into space for a few moments, and then just smiled and got up to leave without another word, leaving me altogether puzzled.  
  
Reviews welcome. 


End file.
